


The Unhurried Pursuit of a Snufkin

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Fuck Snuf Up [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Incest, Kissing, M/M, Meandering Narrative, Smoking, Snufkin suffers, nondescriptive rape, superfluous descriptions of nature, the Joxter is a very bad person, wholesome family activities like camping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Snufkin is very eager to meet the father he's never had - at least until he meets the Joxter, and then he's very eager to never see his father again.





	The Unhurried Pursuit of a Snufkin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/gifts).



The warmth of the hearth wraps around Snufkin as Moominpapa regales him and young Sniff with his memoir. He describes such fantastical places and people that Snufkin finds himself entirely enraptured. While listening, he dreams of going on his own adventures, just as zany and dangerous as those adventures of Moominpapa.

It is, however, Moominpapa’s account of one particular individual that most garners Snufkin’s curiosity. Because it is an individual that has great significance to Snufkin, and yet one he’s never met: his father, the Joxter. Snufkin clings on to every word about the Joxter, gathering up facts like a hungry fish will gobble up breadcrumbs. 

The Joxter is lazy, he learns – and that’s just right, because it’s a waste to be too busy for appreciating anything. The Joxter is clever working with engines, and Snufkin doesn’t understand that but that’s all well and good, too. The Joxter also dislikes Park Keepers and signs and following the rules, and Snufkin swells with familiar pride, _well, that’s just like me!_ and he wants nothing more than to see the father that he had never met. 

Life has a funny way of granting wishes, not always the way you wanted them granted. At the end of Moominpapa’s tale, the door bursts open and in comes so many from his memoirs: Hodgkins, the Muddler, the Mymble and her daughter, and no less than thirty-four Mymble kitties. Amongst them, the wild-haired cat-eyed Joxter.

At first, Snufkin doesn’t know how to respond – he knows immediately that’s his father, but it occurs to him that he’s never really experienced having a father before. What was one supposed to do? Joyous sounds are erupting everywhere as friends and family members unite, and Snufkin stands off to the side, stewing in consternation.

The Joxter has no such hesitation. His feline eyes latch onto Snufkin, and light up – “Snufkin?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Papa?”

Without a moment more, the Joxter darts over to wrap his arms warmly around Snufkin.

He smells richly of earth and leaves and tobacco, not unlike Snufkin but thicker, built over so many more years. He smells feral, and perhaps just a touch sour.

It’s a good smell, mostly, Snufkin decides, and is surprised when his eyes feel wet. _My father, after all this time!_ Loosely, he returns the hug.

A purring starts deep in the Joxter’s chest. Maybe he too had wanted to see Snufkin. It must have been a very important adventure that kept him away. 

But Snufkin isn’t much for physical contact – no, he’d rather hear stories from his papa, and go on adventures: those things seem much more exciting. This hug really is going on too long. He starts to pull away, but the Joxter’s arms clench tight around him. It’s a cage, wrapping him in place like a snared rabbit.

That’s when the Joxter’s breath sighs over the side of his neck, and all the muscles in Snufkin’s body tense. That’s not right. That doesn’t feel good. It feels crawly, like waking up with bugs inching into his sleeping bag. Snufkin’s eyes dart nervously: everyone else is exchanging delightful greetings and hugs – brief, the way they ought to be. 

The Joxter’s hair tickles Snufkin’s cheek – his breath is warmer, closer, and something wet touches Snufkin’s throat. The Joxter melts against him; Snufkin’s arms are full of fabric and a lithe body.

“Papa?” he whispers, as if the word might jostle his father into more suitable behavior. It seems to have the opposite effect, for the Joxter makes a warm, cloying noise, and his hips twitch against Snufkin. 

Snufkin tears away, all warmth gone. 

The Joxter stumbles to regain his balance, then tucks his hands into his cloak and smiles lazily. “Hullo, Snufkin.” 

“Hullo.” Nobody else notices. 

Snufkin nearly leaps out of his skin when Sniff barrels into him, clutching fist fulls of buttons, “look, look at this one, look what my papa brought me!” 

And Snufkin acknowledges the buttons with a nod and a noise. He’s all too aware of Joxter’s eyes following him. 

But the two share no more words, for the house is erupting with merriment. Moominmama breaks out rich aged wine, and soon many cheeks are rosy. Easy laughter mixes with the aroma of the plump roast and buttery golden rolls that Moominmama had elected to bake for the occasion.

They gather at the table (Moominpapa fetches chairs from adjacent rooms) and mouths overflow with stories, banter, catching-ups and remember-whens. The Muddler fawns over Sniff; he’s all jokes and paternal affection, and promises to be around more, to do this or that. The Joxter, meanwhile, crawls onto the armoire very early and curls up, blinking his huge feline eyes, thus silently and effectively removing himself from the potential of more conversation.

When dinner is ready, everyone stuffs their bellies with the savory food, and it fuels boisterous remarks on Moominmama’s skillful cooking. The noise level rises as more wine is drunk; stories become more outlandishly embellished. 

As the night ages, Snufkin withdraws more and more from the commotion. It’s too much noise; too many people, for him to tolerate long. Anyway, his neck prickles in an unsettling way, and he’s convinced that the Joxter’s eyes linger on him longer than anyone else. 

The Muddler, noticing his frequent glances towards the armoire, leans over to Snufkin, “he’s always doing just the opposite of what one should. That’s just how Joxters are, and he doesn’t mean any harm.”

 _That’s right,_ Snufkin thinks. _He is my dad._

Snufkin detaches from the table, and stands by the Joxter’s armoire. 

“Did you really fly the Oshun Oxtra with Moominpapa?” he asks.

The Joxter yawns, nice and slow. He nods, settles his cheek on his arm, and gazes at Snufkin sideways. 

Snufkin dawdles in place, but his father offers no additional words. 

“And you took it under the water?” Snufkin pries. 

Joxter nods. 

Snufkin pauses, and thinks. “You don’t like Park Keepers either?” he tries, because that’s something he relates to, not like the Oshun Oxtra. 

But even this results in nothing more than a _nodnod._

Maybe the Joxter doesn’t want to talk. Snufkin steps back, expression guarded. Okay. 

The house is too full for Snufkin’s tastes anyway. As Snufkin leaves, he can feel the Joxter’s eyes from atop the armoire following him. He’s glad to shut the door behind him and retreat to his tent. The familiar loneliness feels much less lonely, all the sudden. In fact, he thinks maybe even now he isn’t alone enough. Maybe he would pack up and leave early tomorrow, before the house wakes.

 

 

Eventually, he drifts to sleep, and he doesn’t dream. When he wakes, a misty chill hangs over the surrounding meadows, and the horizon is the pink of an ocean shell. He decides to stay after all, just for today. 

Moominmama cooks up piles upon piles of pancakes, and Snufkin wanders in once he can smell the batter baking from the porch. 

The meal is as rambunctious as dinner, except now the kids are the loudest: the adults sit and grumble and a few clutch their heads. 

The Joxter is clear-eyed, and unusually enthusiastic, as far as Snufkin can tell. He’s talkative for one thing, leaning against the wall and grinning at Mymble, 

“You know, a niece of mine once died from cooking pancakes,” he tells her, stressing the syllables in a rather deranged way.

“Did she!?” Mymble declares, and chitters.

The Joxter doesn’t seem to notice Snufkin come in; he’s occupied elaborating on his story in grotesque detail.

Snufkin only catches a few more words before Moomin nearly barrels into him. 

“Oh Snufkin, it’s so good to see you again!” Moomin tugs at Snufkin’s sleeve. “Come eat pancakes with me – look, I made you a plate!”

“I see that,” Snufkin agrees, and gets tugged into his seat.

“I was worried you were gonna leave this morning,” Moomin says.

“I almost did.”

“What? But look at these pancakes! Mama always makes the best pancakes, Snufkin, don’t you want to stay for those?” Hidden somewhere under that is a question he doesn’t ask, and that’s _don’t you want to stay for me?_

“Well, I did stay, didn’t I?” Snufkin points out.

“And you’ll stay tomorrow? We could have an adventure, or go fishing, or climb the mountain.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t say that, Snufkin!”

Snufkin makes a noncommittal noise. He’d like to hear more of the Joxter’s story, because whatever it is, it’s got the Mymble in fits of laughter. But the kitties are chattering and jabbering and shrieking, and he doesn’t catch another word from the Joxter. 

It wouldn’t be so bad to stay another day. Yesterday seems distant, unimportant. 

“Tell you what, Moomin, let’s climb to the other side of the mountain today.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

“Oh wow, that’d be great!” Moomin dives enthusiastically into his pancakes, not unlike Sniff across the table, who inhaled his food like there was no tomorrow.

Snufkin only picks at his own meal. An odd sour feeling stays with him, and he wishes it wouldn’t. He’s far too aware of every little gesture, laugh, and deafened remark the Joxter makes. He is both jealous that Mymble has the Joxter's attention, and also relieved the Joxter isn't being strange and rubbing up against him.

Snufkin stabs his pancake, but has lost his appetite altogether.

“I’m not leaving,” he tells Moomin, and slips out the back door. 

Here there’s a solid wood porch, painted a faded forget-me-not blue, and a large rocking bench suspended from the ceiling. 

Snufkin sits in the rocker. It’s lovely here, with a view of the forest and a teasing hint of a brook winding through the trees. Much quieter than in the house. He’ll go to the mountain with Moomin, and the Joxter will be far from his mind. He’ll forget all about it.

The screen door slams, and Snufkin jumps. 

The Joxter – for it was him who came from the house – drifts his gaze to Snufkin. Just like before, all warmth flees. It’s instant – frighteningly so – and Snufkin abruptly thinks, _I’m alone with him._

Not a good kind of alone, not the kind of aloneness he suddenly deeply wanted. Snufkin sinks lower in the rocker. Perhaps he should go get Moomin now, and leave for the mountain instead. But something invisible holds him in place. 

Quietly, the Joxter walks to the railing and lights his pipe, taking a few thoughtful puffs and admiring the forest view. 

“I came here to be alone,” Snufkin points out.

“You’re my son,” the Joxter replies, perhaps in way of an explanation, although he also seems a touch surprised by the statement. 

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the Joxter realizes. He turns from the railing and smiles disarmingly. “Here.” The rocker’s boards creak as he settles beside Snufkin, much too close. 

He offers his pipe. Haltingly, Snufkin takes it and puts it to his lips, if for little other reason than to give himself something to do. He gazes over the railing and pretends like everything is okay. 

When a gloved hand settles warmly on his upper thigh, he jumps but keeps his gaze affixed forward. Suddenly it becomes very difficult to speak or move. 

A grey cloud of smoke puffs from his lips and diffuses into the morning air. He wishes Moomin would come looking for him. He wishes he had not stepped out of the house. He wishes he had left Moominvalley before breakfast. 

The Joxter’s hand kneads appreciatively. Without meaning to, Snufkin jiggles his leg like a horse harassed by a fly. He sucks down smoke hard, and blows it from his lips shakily. 

He wishes _very much_ that Moomin would interrupt. Quickly.

Joxter sighs; a low, pleased noise. His fingers are thick and calloused, perhaps from climbing in trees, and working on engines – he doesn’t seem to do much else but that and sleep. They squeeze Snufkin’s thigh, and it hurts, just a bit. 

“Stop,” Snufkin says, softly. 

Joxter chuckles, warm and rough, but very very wrong. That is answer enough, as is the fingers that creep higher on Snufkin’s inner thigh. They settle, heady and firm, between his legs.

Snufkin lets out a strangled noise and leaps to his feet – at that moment, the screen door bursts open, Muddler and Sniff emerge chatting heartedly about the buttons, and the Joxter’s hand retreats to his pocket. 

_I will leave after all,_ Snufkin decides. _Moomin will understand. Joxter might. It’s okay if he doesn’t._

It still hurts a little, because Sniff and the Muddler had looked so happy, but that was that.

 _Maybe the Joxter and I will meet again,_ Snufkin thinks, _in several more months, and he’ll be done with this strangeness._

Snufkin slips off the porch and wanders to the forest, because he knows if he goes back into the house, Moomin will try to stop him from leaving. 

 

He breaks camp and forgets to leave a goodbye letter. 

In the coming days, he immerses himself in the forest and thinks of little else but each moment as they come to him. He sits quietly by a brook and watches the flashes of fish scales in the sunlight. In the evening, he contemplates his tiny campfire.

The nights are long and quiet, or as quiet as they get with the wind rustling through the trees and the nocturnal creatures chirping and scuttling about. He gains back the scent of wilderness, which in his short time at Moominpapa’s had faded, and he gains back the calm ponderous nature that is difficult to maintain when you’re around others that bustle and run about impatiently, as if life should be measured by a tiny hand on a clock. 

Some indeterminate time later, deep in a distant forest, he plays a song that suddenly comes to him the way that songs are wont to do. It’s a plaintive song, sweet and thoughtful. It wavers on its last note like a question. 

Long after the note dwindles into silence, Snufkin sits and considers it. And for the first time, he considers what had happened at Moominpapa’s house. Perhaps the Joxter had not been so strange. He wasn’t like the Moomins or the Hattenfatteners, or the Hemulens. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was a Joxter. Joxters were different from Snufkins, like Moomins were different from Hemulens. 

Snufkin plays his mouth organ again, this time a lilting tune. He wonders how he might find the Joxter again. 

Of course, the simplest place to look would be at Moomin’s house. The Joxter had last been there, and perhaps Moominpapa or mama would know where he had gone off to. Or perhaps he was still there, sleeping on top of the armoire and smoking on the porch.

It’s decided then, as quick as that. He packs up his things, and he finds himself winding down the familiar path to Moominvalley, and it has nothing at all to do with wanting to see the Moomins again, and it has everything to do with seeing the Joxter again.

When he arrives at the doorstep, some days later, on a clear sunny morning, it’s Moominpapa who answers.

“Snufkin, what a surprise! We hardly expected you so soon! Moomin will be so happy to see you.”

“Have you seen the Joxter around?” Snufkin asks.

“The Joxter?” Moominpapa pushes his glasses up his nose. “Here I thought he must be traveling with you!”

“What?”

“Well, he left just a few hours after you, and we haven’t seen him for two months. But now you’re here, and he arrived only a few hours before you. He’s in the garden.”

Snufkin nods and turns –

“Wait, but won’t you say hello to Moomin? He’s been talking about you for weeks, hoping you’d come-“

“Maybe later.”

He wants to talk to Moomin, because Moomin is often the only interesting person to talk to, but first if the Joxter is here, he needs to settle that matter. Snufkins winds around the house’s perimeter and trots into the Moomin garden. It’s a good garden, by which Snufkin means it doesn’t follow any proper rules. 

The viney underbrush of a Lasken plant twines with the petals of the Sorffin flower, while the dustgrass and the sungrass grow into the dirt paths that are so poorly kept they might as well not be paths at all. Things are untidy here, and just the way they should be, and there isn’t a sign in sight. At least the Moomins had some sense about gardens.

Amidst this chaos, there’s a green-cloaked individual, kneeling in the soil and plucking up bright leaves to gather in his pockets. 

Snufkin plods over to him, suddenly less certain about his decision to return. That’s unpleasant to consider – he prefers being certain about things. 

“What are you doing?” Snufkin asks.

“Can’t you tell?” The Joxter replies. Up close, he can see the Joxter is gathering tobacco leaves. 

“Does Moominpapa let you take them?”

The Joxter’s clever eyes peer up at Snufkin beneath the brim of his hat, _do I care?_

Well. Snufkin shakes off the chill those eyes give him, and settles next to the Joxter to pluck up plants hastily. 

Snufkin’s fingers look thin and pale beside the Joxter’s, which are creased and gritty with dirt. But Snufkin is nimble, and a little irritated, so he tears off the leaves plenty quick enough to match the number the Joxter holds.

Silently, the Joxter decides they each have enough, and rises without a word. He expects Snufkin to follow him – or perhaps he simply doesn’t care whether Snufkin does or not.

Moominpapa has a rugged shack towards the back of the garden, one with gardening tools and some cloves and garlic hanging in the doorway. 

The Joxter moves to the bench inside this shack, and picks up a strand of yellow twine. With practiced motions, he weaves the twine into the top of the leaves, until each leaf hangs from the string like a bizarre necklace. Snufkin sets himself to the same task, albeit clumsily in his attempt to keep up with the Joxter’s motions, which were not hurried but rather experienced. 

This done, the two moved towards the back of the shed and hung their leaves up on the rafters. Leaves from older harvests, aged to a crisp dry mustard yellow, the Joxter takes down and carries to the bench.

“You do these,” he orders, and pushes half the pile to Snufkin. “Don’t crumble the leaves. Slice them.”

Snufkin chafes against the demands. But the tobacco leaves smell rich and sweet, and he’s running low on his own supplies. With a snort of displeasure, Snufkin takes out his whittling knife and begins chopping up the dried leaves. At the very least, he thinks, Joxter seems to be a more tolerable mood this time around.

Just as he thinks that, the Joxter’s hand flies out of nowhere, and the strike against his cheek is surprisingly sharp, sudden. Snufkin flinches hard and freezes. 

Quietly, the Joxter’s hands take over Snufkin’s work, “cut the leaves neatly, evenly,” he explains, his voice a rough, soothing timbre, altogether inappropriate for how he unnerved Snufkin. “Don’t ruin them. Here, you do it.”

He’s just showing him a better way to do it. That’s all. He’s interested in teaching Snufkin. That’s promising, isn’t it? But Snufkin’s cheek stings, and he isn’t convinced. 

Nonetheless, he takes over the station, and begins to slice the leaves the way the Joxter had instructed. The Joxter hovers close, observing his work. 

“Much better,” he says approvingly, and for a second, things seem okay.

The Joxter’s long whiskers brush his cheek. Snufkin’s next cut is jagged, uneven, and he half expects another strike. 

Instead, the Joxter tilts his head to the side. Whiskers brush Snufkin’s ear. Rough lips press to his cheek.

The knife clatters to the bench as Snufkin takes a half step away. “What was that?”

Joxter darts in a second time, but Snufkin skitters backwards like a jumpy mouse. 

This elicits a warm chuckle from the Joxter. “A kiss.”

“But why are you-“ the Joxter grabs his wrists, hard enough to bruise, and fear clutches Snufkin. “Let go of me-“

“Hold still,” the Joxter chastises, not unlike an owner scolding a disobedient dog. 

“I won’t!” Snufkin twists his head away, and whiskery lips sloppily press to the juncture between his jaw and ear. “Eugh, leave me alone!” Snufkin maneuvers one wrist free and beats his fist against the Joxter’s shoulder, but the Joxter doesn’t even flinch. Instead his free hand worms into Snufkin’s pants. 

“Papa, stop-“ Snufkin’s lower back strikes the table hard enough to sting.

Teeth sink into his throat. He uselessly tries to shove the Joxter away. “Papa, please, stop!” he feels exposed, vulnerable, preyed upon; this isn’t how this was supposed to go! Fathers shouldn’t do this!

Joxter’s fingers pry and it _hurts,_ but before he can process it, the Joxter’s kissing him again. This time, it’s not soft or tender – it’s vicious, cruel, needy like a beast, and he’s making that huffing noise again; somewhere behind it Snufkin hears a hysterical giggle. He tastes thickly of smoke, and his tongue nudges impatiently between Snufkin’s lips like a bloated slug.

Nearly in tears, Snufkin spits and thrashes, anything to get him off, anything to get him _away._

The door to the shack rattles. 

Faster than Snufkin knows, the Joxter is completely off him, nonchalantly slicing up tobacco leaves as if nothing happened, and the door opens –

Moominpapa steps in, puffing on his own pipe. “Ah! Teaching him to chop up his own tobacco?”

“He’s learning,” answers the Joxter, an inhuman smile curling beneath his cat-like eyes.

“Every young man should learn to cut his own tobacco!” Moominpapa agrees heartily. “Snufkin, you aren’t coming down with sickness, are you?”

Snufkin can barely process what’s happening. His cheeks are flushed, his neck stings, and he feels uncomfortable tingling between his legs and at his lips, as if Joxter’s touch had left something in its wake. 

But the Joxter’s eyes slide in his direction, and there’s a warning.

Snufkin shakes his head. “N-no, moominpapa.”

“Mhmmm,” Moominpapa rubs his chin. “Well, keep your distance when you go talk to Moomin, just in case, yes?”

“I’m sure he will,” the Joxter reassures Moominpapa, who nods sagely.

“It’s wonderful to see you two bonding,” Moominpapa remarks good-naturedly. “Well, Moominmama will have some good roast ready for dinner tonight, if you wanted to stay.”

“I can’t say no to her cooking,” the Joxter’s eyes glitter.

“Maybe,” Snufkin responds numbly. He’s hyperaware of every movement the Joxter makes, his skin ready to flinch at the slightest indication of threat. Everything else is distant, almost unreal. He hardly believes that this conversation is happening – how can the Joxter be so casual? How can Moominpapa notice nothing? 

The Joxter and Moominpapa continue rambling on about cooking, of all things, and Snufkin looks to the closed shack door, his feet itching to run. 

Finally, finally, Moominpapa leaves. For several seconds Snufkin waits, listening to his footsteps fade down the path back to the house. Just as intently, he listens to the Joxter beside him, listens for the slightest sound of danger. He’s coiled up like a tense animal. He wants to be alone. He wants to be far, far away from anybody.

“Aren’t you going to finish cutting up your leaves?” The Joxter asks. 

Snufkin runs. The shack door slams behind him, and he keeps on running. Soon enough he’s deep in the forest, and even then, he doesn’t stop running. He’s afraid that no matter how far he runs, he won’t be far enough. Won’t be alone enough.

 

Alone, out in the woods, he should be himself. He should be Snufkin, like he had always been Snufkin, and things should feel all right. They don’t. There’s a prickling at his lips, and between his legs. His skin feels used, and not his, and all wrong. 

So he doesn’t think about himself. He camps in a new place every night, and he cooks, and sleeps, and plays his mouth organ. If the music is all wrong, that’s okay, because it takes time for things to sound right. He drifts further and further, eventually leaving Moominvalley, and trekking to places where he hopefully cannot be followed. Not that he thinks about it. 

One day, he wakes up to music. A tune plays through the air, one as light as the wind; one that waves with the leaves in the breeze, one that belongs in the forest, one that, if you weren’t focusing, could be mistaken for a song of a bird; part of the natural backdrop of the forest.

His head lifts. Who can play like that? None of the hemulens, that’s for sure, and the moomins couldn’t do that, so –

Oh. 

He has an idea, but wants to be wrong. 

The song continues, leaping like a brook, dipping like a deep valley beneath mountains. It hovers for a moment, tremulous as if on a precipice. Snufkin’s breath catches in his throat as he waits – the note shakes, shivers - then plummets down.

As it falls, new notes burst forth, forming a slow, ominous march. Snufkin’s bones shiver. 

The song strikes the ground, and leaps in response, immortal and free. It dances like pollen flitting amongst rays of sunlight. At this point, Snufkin is dreadfully certain of the musician’s identity.

Snufkin quietly takes a pot from his pack, and steps into the morning sun. It’s completely impossible to miss the shadow up in the trees, with eyes playful and coy, and hair mahogany dark and wild.

Of course the Joxter would be the one to understand music. Whether or not Snufkin likes that. 

To Joxter’s eerie playing, Snufkin gathers sticks and sets up a fire. It takes time for the flame to properly catch, and longer still for it to lick up in its kindling prison. Eventually, Joxter’s tune flits out like a ray of sunlight snuffed by the shifting canopy. 

Snufkin fills his pot halfway with water, and crumples varied herbs into it. He then sets the pot to boil. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches at the Joxter slinks out of the tree. Silently, he approaches, sits, and offers his pipe. Snufkin takes it, somewhat reluctantly. He remembers last time, and isn’t keen on repeating that. But he draws in a lungful; the smoke is dark and rich in a way that Snufkin wishes he could make his. He holds in his breath and savors it, before letting a fan of smoke blow from his lips. 

The Joxter watches as Snufkin inhales a second time, deeper than the first. A pink tongue touches his half-smiling lips.

Snufkin shudders. He wishes the Joxter would just leave. 

“Here, add these.” Joxter digs his hands into his thick coat and pulls out two small cured fish, heads and tails removed.

Snufkin isn’t going to say no to the addition of fish to his meal, and he accepts the offering. 

Under the Joxter’s scrutiny, he stirs in the fish, and checks the taste. Always he keeps an eye on the Joxter, and yet his father does nothing strange.

“Did you want some?” Snufkin asks, holding up a spoonful meaningfully.

The Joxter nods, and looks mightily pleased. 

Snufkin can’t help thinking that it’s unfair he did all the cooking and the Joxter gets to eat, but then again, his father did provide the fish.

Breakfast is a pleasant, quiet affair. The Joxter briefly talks about different types of plants that Snufkin had not known about, but mostly they sit in silence. When breakfast is finished, the Joxter curls up in a tree branch to nap, leaving Snufkin to clean all the dishes in the nearby river and pack up his campsite on his own. Snufkin departs while the Joxter is still sleeping, and elects not to tell his father he’s leaving. He, in fact, moves just a little bit faster over the ground. 

The rest of the afternoon, he doesn’t stop – not for tea, not for a pipe, not for a song. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, but he’s going, and it’s hopefully somewhere the Joxter is not.

That’s an odd thought, once he admits it to himself: that he doesn’t want to see his father. Because the Joxter hadn’t done anything bad that morning, had he, and Snufkin couldn’t find anything, really, to complain about. Isn’t that what he wanted? Isn’t that why he had looked for the Joxter in the first place? For things to be the way they ought to be, and for him to have a good father? Then again, that’s what he’d wanted before what happened in Moominpapa’s shed and things changed a little bit after that.

So Snufkin moves swiftly. When purple hues streak across the sky and then deepen and then blacken – only then does Snufkin stop, his stomach a tight knot of hunger, reminding him he hasn’t set up camp and he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. 

He’s fairly convinced that he’s left the sleepy Joxter far behind. His new location is beside a wide slow river, one that sluggishly but tirelessly oozes to the horizon. The banks are whitish green with froth and algae, and an unpleasant scent hovers over it. Not a river to drink from, he decides, but his stores of water should last him until he finds a more suitable body of water.

Hunger rolling deep in his belly, and the stars overhead peeking to emerge in the dying sun, Snufkin makes camp. He stakes the pegs of his tent into the soft dirt, not far from the river, and attaches the rainfly over his tent, for some clouds are coming in from the north. This done, he unfolds the sleeping bag and wool blanket that will keep the warmth inside for what looks to be a chilly night.

It’s when he steps outside to double-check the tent stakes that he hears a soft yawn coming from a nearby tree. It sets all the blood in his body pumping fast.

He looks, and sure enough – there’s the Joxter, sprawled out on a branch, dead asleep. 

Snufkin quietly slips into his tent. No reason to move places, just because the Joxter is here. He already was halfway done setting up camp, anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late to change locations. _But how did he get here so fast?_ No, there wasn’t any point in worrying about it. 

Snufkin’s movements are erratic, jolting, like a doll manipulated by a clumsy puppet-master. He’s not pleased the Joxter is here. He’d gone away to be alone, and he very much wishes he’d be alone.

Snufkin unwinds his scarf and sets it beside the bedroll, then rummages in his backpack until he finds some tea, now cold and a touch bitter. Sipping it takes the very edge off of his hunger, which is good because it occurs to him that despite not eating anything for most of the day, his stomach doesn’t feel settled enough to take solid food.

Normally at this time he would have liked to sit by the river and enjoy a small campfire and a song – but the night is late, and the clouds increasingly dark. He shucks off his shoes and crawls into his sleeping bag, tugging it over his head. Better to sleep. He can eat a proper meal in the morning, when the Joxter will have ideally moved on. 

Before long, the canvas of his tent pitter-patters with a light rain. 

He has a moment to think, with a touch of satisfaction, _the Joxter will get wet._ That moment doesn’t last long. With a harsh _zzzzzzzzrup!_ the tent door is unzipped, and in crawls a dark figure, whiskers glistening with dew in the halo of the stars. _Zzzzzrip_ he zips the door, and they are plunged in blackness again.

Snufkin scrambles to sit up, “what are you doing?”

“It’s raining,” answers the shadowy mass simply.

“Bring your own tent,” Snufkin retorts. 

“But you have this one.”

“What do you do when it’s raining and I’m not here?”

“I find a house,” the shadows reply, “or if there isn’t one, a good spot beneath the trees.”

“Go find one of those.”

“This is closer. I’d much rather stay here.”

“I’d rather you _not_!” Snufkin cries firmly, and strikes a fist against his sleeping bag. 

Snufkin swears that the Joxter’s eyes glitter in the dark, and that one of those strange, sly smiles is curling at his lips. Snufkin wishes to have his head hidden beneath the covers, and to have the Joxter far away from here.

“Scoot over,” the Joxter says, stepping closer and shaking droplets off his coat.

“No,” Snufkin says, but it’s a soft squeak of a noise. 

The Joxter doesn’t seem to feel this deserves a reply. Instead, one calloused hand wraps around Snufkin’s arm; the other clenches at his hip – it’s a testament more to Snufkin’s thinness than the Joxter’s strength that he is able to redeposit him to the very edge of the sleeping bag.

This done, the Joxter sheds his overcoat and crawls into the space Snufkin had previously occupied.

Snufkin decides this is about enough. He won’t sleep in the same bed as the Joxter. If the Joxter won’t sleep beneath the trees, then Snufkin will. Angrily, he starts detangling himself from the sleeping bag, only for a hand to snake out and latch onto his wrist.

Snufkin freezes. 

Feline eyes glitter from the dark. _I dare you,_ they challenge, with the wily amusement of a fox. _I dare you; see what I’ll do. See what I’ll do._

Snufkin wants to. His skin jumps like he’s going to, his muscles bunch, and the Joxter reads from him, _I’m ready, I’m gonna fight._

“Nhhy,” the Joxter utters, a soft eager noise close to anticipation, excitement, like he’s waiting for the shot of a gun to attack.

And all the fight leeches from Snufkin’s body, because those eyes – he hesitates on the word frighten. But they’re predatory. Confident and sly and there’s something not quite right about them. 

“Lay down, sleep,” the Joxter encourages, self-satisfied like the fattest, laziest toad. Snufkin sinks back down. Arms cradle around him and legs twine. His face nestles into the rumbled fabric bunched at his father’s chest. Rich tobacco scent stings at his nose; hot, angry tears sting at his eyes. 

_Here I thought he must be traveling with you,_ Moominpapa had said, _he left just a few hours after you, and we haven’t seen him for two months. But now you’re here, and he arrived only a few hours before you._

Rage and injustice coil in Snufkin’s chest. The Joxter doesn’t belong here. He wasn’t invited here. And he wasn’t ever invited to make Snufkin uncomfortable. He has no right.

He’s supposed to be different! He’s supposed to be kind, or at least benevolent; relatable, or at least understandable. He’s supposed to be a father, whatever that is supposed to mean. Like the Muddler, who showed Sniff his button collection and promised to take him on adventures. 

Instead, the Joxter tugs him even closer, and his breath ruffles Snufkin’s hair. Snufkin’s head feels stuffy and swollen while tears bunch in the corners of his eye. No, the Joxter wasn’t at all what he was supposed to be, and he was everything he wasn’t supposed to be. 

Perhaps the Muddler would say that’s exactly a Joxter’s nature. 

The rain outside drowns out Snufkin’s own jittering, frightened heartbeat. It takes him a very very long time to fall asleep.

 

Snufkin wakes with tear-swollen eyes, and hunger gnawing at him. He finds he has no personal space – that the Joxter’s limbs have twined around his own in an unrecognizable tangle. Attempting to tug away draws a displeased growl from the sleeping lump that is – regretfully – his father.

Snufkin weighs the merits of yanking free and storming off, but the hidden strength in the Joxter’s arms – _which held him pinned to the table, as his whiskers brushed his cheek and a chuckle grated on his ears_ – holds him back. 

Instead, he looks about. His tent is as bare as normal. The pot he traditionally cooks in rests against the east wall. The tent zipper is roughly five centimeters unzipped; water had dribbled from this opening and settled in a puddle on the floor. 

Through the slit Snufkin glimpses a sea-shell pink horizon framed against the evergreens. That’s where he wants to be. Alone. Or with Moomin, maybe. And he wants to have never met the Joxter. 

“You left my tent partly unzipped,” Snufkin says crossly. All he receives in return in a muffled noise that might have been a laugh. Indignity flares. He won’t stay here. He isn’t the Joxter’s slave. Snufkin can do as he pleases, and he isn’t accountable to anyone. 

He removes himself from the sleeping bag, and steps gingerly around the Joxter. 

The Joxter’s frightening eyes snap open. “What did I tell you about leaving?” the Joxter says playfully, smiling.

“Nothing,” Snufkin replies – it’s true. The Joxter hadn’t _said_ anything about it. “I’m going. You can keep the tent.”

And Snufkin intends on walking right out. He turns on his heel, takes a step, and fingers wrap around his ankle. One strong yank sends him hard to the ground. The grass is fresh, spring green, and it tickles his throat and cheek. 

“It’s a cold morning,” the Joxter says, “you were warm.” Something else dances behind his words – something frightening, and predatory, and Snufkin wants out now.

He kicks his leg aimlessly, and his heel strikes something hard – the Joxter lets out a cry, and Snufkin bolts for the exit. His shaky hands grapple with the tent zipper, and in his haste it snags halfway down. 

A gloved hand wraps around his throat, and _pulls._ The world lurches dizzily, Snufkin sees the tent ceiling and then his head thumps down hard on the ground. 

Soon the Joxter is on top of him. Snufkin’s fingers scrape uselessly against the grass and damp dirt. 

“Shhh….” The Joxter very easily holds him down. 

“Papa, no!”

His whittling knife is packed away in his bag, out of his reach, useless to him. And he’s far, far away from anyone else that would help him.

The Joxter settles deliberately over Snufkin’s thighs, and bile rises in the mumrik’s throat. Sensations blur together awfully. He scrapes dirt up his fingernails as his shirt is shoved up beneath his chin. He kicks and writhes, as uncooperative as he can make himself, but the Joxter is quietly, patiently persistent. Cold air sighs from the half-open tent entrance, and bites at his exposed thighs. 

As the Joxter buries himself inside his son, Snufkin lets out one last pained cry. Afterwards, he’s silent. He stops fighting, stops struggling; he closes his eyes and endures. This will pass. This will end. Tears streak down his cheeks, but even his crying is entirely silent. He isn’t at all Snufkin. He’s a thing. He’s an object. He’s used, a doll, not himself, something else. 

It doesn’t take long to end. Though Snufkin doesn’t feel when Joxter finishes, he does hear it: the rumbling, shuddering moan, accompanied by the final weak jolts of his hips. Then, a tender, long sigh, and whiskers brush his cheek.

For one heavy moment, the Joxter does not move. Only his breathing fills the tent, first fast and then gradually slowing. He withdraws from Snufkin with a light chuckle. 

He says no goodbye, and gives no parting words. He slips out from the tent and is gone.

Snufkin gazes through the flapping entrance to his tent. His thighs are cold and bare. Outside he glimpses a sliver of trees, and beyond that, the misty purple outline of a mountain. 

For a while, he doesn’t move. 

For a while, he wonders if he will ever move again.


End file.
